


Eight Hours

by December Dragon (StarlightOnInk), derevosky



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred F. Jones - Freeform, AmeRus - Freeform, Cold War, Collaboration, Crossdressing, Dresses, Fluff, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Humor, Ivan Braginsky - Freeform, M/M, Romance, RusAme, RusAme Gift Exchange, RusAme Secret Santa 2017, Sneaking, Soviet Union, United States, disguises, waiting for spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 23:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13492317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightOnInk/pseuds/December%20Dragon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevosky/pseuds/derevosky
Summary: Russia and America are not ones to let others fully dictate their lives. It's the Cold War and Ivan is determined to sneak over to America and steal a Christmas kiss. Established relationship RusAme / AmeRus, giftfic for Emeraldsage98 for the RusAme Secret Santa 2017.





	Eight Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmeraldSage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/gifts).



> Happy holidays, emeraldsage98, from December-Dragon and Derevosky! All of your prompts were fantastic! We went with Ivan sneaking over to Alfred for a Christmas kiss, plus the vague prompt. Enjoy!

**Eight Hours**

The morning December snowfall graced the roofs of every establishment in Red Square again, but the persistent colors of the landmarks peeked through. The view could be festive on its own, with its impressionistic charm, how it blurred enough details to let another kind of aesthetic synergy appear along its hues of dawn. Although, the people of the Soviet Union didn’t bat an eye for they had nothing to celebrate about. They walked here and there, enjoying the absence of a blizzard while they could. It was already the twenty-fifth in Moscow, but not yet in Washington D.C. as the embodiment of Russia would ponder about it.

The day was as ordinary as it could be, at least by Russian standards. The outside noise indicated the busy streets with their nonchalant heartbeats, and it served enough as music to his ears despite the ungodly hour; it was normal to wake up and get right to work. Russia would stare at everything and nothing, yet the paperwork in front of him glared intensely. Violet eyes staggered, as he scratched his ashen blond hair. He pinched the bridge of his prominent nose as he heaved a sigh, and laid his head on the pile of paper.

“This is actually a good pillow,” he muttered to himself, and yawned.

He wasn’t really the type to get tired easily. In fact, he was the opposite. He was rather too obedient to notice that he got wary on a daily basis; he was used to hazardous tasks so things like office work never affect him. The only thing that stressed him that morning was how he would visit America. They forgot to plan for this day after they last met about a week and a half ago. They didn’t even talk much; their conversation was more an exchange through their body heat, the friction between them, and the uttering of languages by slipping their tongues into each other. With all those little memories, he didn’t notice how his heart thrummed into a fast rhythmic lullaby as he dozed off into a hazy mess of lust and longing until someone knocked on his door.

“How are the papers, Mr. Russia?”

“Sorry, I have yet to start.”

The secretary nodded and closed the door. That person was a reminder that he was not free to do what he wished.

Except for in the coming days, hours even, when he would forge his own agenda based purely on his wants.

The vigilant eyes of his boss meant most of Russia’s movements were carefully monitored or observed. But Russia had over a thousand years more experience than he, and was no stranger to finding obscure but successful solutions to his problems.

Still…a little coordinating would have gone a long way towards helping him get through work feeling more relaxed.

The watch at his wrist ticked away the minutes of monotony and contemplation and, to his boss’s chagrin, lack of work. He and the secretary took turns checking up on Russia, and Russia made a valiant show of productivity, but would immediately fall back into his tired stupor.

At last, the minute and hour hands reached their mark, and with a grateful sigh, Russia pushed away from his desk, the heels of his hands rubbing at his eyes. Right on cue, the secretary entered a final time, offering a polite nod of the head and asking if he needed anything worked on over the weekend.

With a tired smile, he told her no, everything had been taken care of, all she needed to do was enjoy the holidays.

“How will you be spending the holidays, Olga Vasilyevna?” he asked as he shrugged on his coat and hefted up his bag.

“Oh, just spending time with family- I have a sister in Rostov I’ll be visiting.” She too bundled up for the cold outside. “And yourself? How will you be meeting the new year?”

Ivan did not bother fighting down a smile. “With a kiss.”

0o0o0

General Winter’s presence was that of poisoned honey, a gift at a hefty cost. The bitter December chill had coated much of Moscow in snow and ice, and the wind nipped exposed skin red. Yet it provided justification for dressing in layers- all thick, concealing clothing that made everyone’s figure look identical, that hid faces and profiles and hair color alike. By the time everyone was properly clad to face the cold Moscow evenings, only their heights and the color of their coats, scarves, and hats stood out.

Ivan had come prepared for this weather and then some. The bag clasped in his hand held some of his important notes, but the key contents were personal items, among them a change of clothes, toothbrush, hair brush, America’s present, and travel papers.

And yet another layer of winter clothing, along with some choice cosmetics.

Already if considerable size, Ivan’s profile was a thick, towering mass of carefully bundled Russia by the time he was fully dressed. The hat sat snug over his hair and covered his ears, muffling the already softened sounds of the Moscow winter night, and kept the chill from stinging the sides of his face.

His people milled about, hunched against the cold, eager to head home. A few nodded politely to him, and Russia returned the gesture in kind, allowing himself a private smile. It was always endearing, when people felt that natural pull towards the person who embodied their land, though they may not understand that pull at the time.

Russia walked by a man scraping frozen muddy slush from the sidewalk, arm outstretched to hail a taxi. From there it was a meandering drive to Sheremetyevo International Airport. Unsurprisingly, the airport was rather crowded, many people visiting family in other cities, or else heading out of Moscow to see some new sights with the coming holidays. Everyone wanted to meet the new year in a pleasant way.

Russia sighed in gratitude as he saw just how bustling the airport was. _Good_ , he thought, weaving through the crowd and over to the restrooms. _Easy to get lost in_.

Getting lost was precisely what he needed. Russia put faith in his bosses out of necessity, for the sake of his people, to get them all to a better- perfect- tomorrow, but he also knew their personality. Knew their paranoia. Felt paranoia of his own. Except for Russia, there was justification, a fact Ivan was reminded of as he cast a casual yet searching glance around him.

When you knew what to look for, it was easy to see how forced the nonchalance of the stranger in black seemed, how the man tailing him stood with too much purpose even as he tried to slouch innocently. It would be easy enough to lose him in but a few minutes, but the necessity of it was an annoyance.

Though, his boss had a reason for his distrust, in this particular case. Especially after he and America had been seen ridding each other of their clothes on a conference room table. The day Russian solidarity with China had been announced.

Extricating himself from a gaggle of travelers, Russia stumbled into the bathroom, bag in tow. Already he took up much of the small space, and only took up more as he pulled on more indistinct clothes to further conceal himself. Peeling off his gloves, Russia carefully unscrewed the cap from a small contact lens case, dipped his finger into the solution, and wrestled with putting the colored lens into his eye. Brown eyes blinked at him from the mirror, and he nodded in approval.

Russia turned, pausing, his earlier satisfied look sliding into a frown as he looked down at his bag of supplies.

He and America may not have gone over much of a plan, yet America still managed to bring up this one silly request. A tired sigh spilled from Russia’s lips.

Sometimes he wondered if being in a relationship with America was good for his sanity. And this, several minutes later, when a brown-eyed mustached man blinked at him from the mirror, was one of those times. It didn’t even fully match his hair!

But it did provide a thorough disguise, silly and uncomfortable though the false facial hair may be. Russia had plenty of experience with natural facial hair, but even his fast hair growth rate was not fast enough to provide any concealment once America proposed his idea.

Back outside, Russia melded in with a group of other men and proceeded through the tiresome process of boarding. At least, he thought, as he gave a tired sigh that seemed to try and expel all his weariness, he was leaving rather than going. Luggage was sometimes misplaced on return trips, adding at least an hour of travel time.

Soon enough, Russia was on the plane heading for America. It was in his seat that he worked to catch some sleep, knowing it would be several hours earlier where America was.

Eight hours, to be exact. There was an eight-hour time difference between Moscow and Washington DC.

Russia had traveled enough that he was not thrown by how much lighter the skies were when the plane landed, but it did always surprise him how suspicious people were of him when he arrived, particularly at customs. Oh, customs. That was always an inconvenience for Ivan Braginsky.

For some reason, customs seemed particularly confused by the small book tucked into his bag. Two individuals peered at it, rifling through the pages, trying to discern just what language it was written in. When they eventually deemed it safe, they proceeded with their evaluation of his luggage- and his person.

“I prefer only my partner doing this,” Ivan said coolly, speaking carefully to tone down his accent while a customs agent patted down his leg. The agent ignored him but paused, frowning as he patted Russia’s boot. Russia offered a sheepish smile when vodka was pulled from his boot. “Oops, forgot that was there.” The agent looked unimpressed. “Relax, don’t put me in a pine overcoat, as they say.”

Ultimately, though things had gone smoothly at Sheremetyevo, much time was eaten up while customs went through his possessions like each were some unique artifact. The potato peeler caught a lot of attention, but eventually he was allowed to proceed.

“You two really don’t flub the dub!” Russia called as a compliment. The two agents stared.

Even America’s capitol felt the sting of winter, though not quite to the same extent in this watery gray daylight. The people here too were bundled against the cold, not quite as thickly, and no one paid him the same passing glances Russia received back in Moscow. If he happened to make eye contact with a stranger, they simply smiled for the moment before moving on. America was strange like that.

It took a taxi drive, a bus ride, and some walking to reach America’s house. Russia was grateful for the rest he had gotten on the plane, but a swell of gratefulness still swelled in his chest when he arrived. Living in the city, Russia was used to walking- if he did not take a bike- but the workday had left him feeling particularly drained. Though there was an excited bounce in his step, his eyelids felt heavy, eager to close in a nap.

Without breaking stride, Russia pulled out the copy of America’s house key America had provided him with. Others might balk at the level of trust bestowed upon another person, never mind a country, never mind a country his own was experiencing tensions with. But though there had been stumbling points, Russia and America’s relationship had not ceased; both were too proud, and if they were ever honest, too infatuated, to break away because a handful of people wanted to make major changes. It provided a plethora of difficulties, but they were hurdles both faced readily, sometimes even excited rather than discouraged by the challenge. That did not mean it did not wear on them; even so, they were two men who knew what they wanted.

The key slid easily into the lock, and Russia carefully ducked inside. Quietly stepping out of his boots, Russia drank in the warmth caressing his skin as soon as he crossed the threshold. Ah, it felt luxurious to even stand in the warm foyer after the repressive environment of his office and the persisting winter cold. Russia paused, listening and looking around the comfortably furnished first floor, with its handsome wood trim and open layout. He could have done with a bit less furnishing and space, Russia noted critically, padding quietly through the rooms.

Rather than call out to America, Russia continued to stride stealthily through the house, peering around doorframes, hoping to catch the other by surprise. Seeing the bathroom vacant, Russia quickly took the opportunity to change out of his many layers of clothing and into the special outfit he had put together. Checking over himself as he resumed his search, Russia fought down a nagging sense of doubt; America might be able to pull off this look, but maybe there was a reason his boss did not want these clothes in the country. Frowning, Russia closed the door to yet another empty room, and had just turned to investigate the basement when he heard another door close upstairs.

Target located.

0o0o0

The holidays were a romantic time, in America’s mind, a trait he considered the ultimate truth he was graced with knowing even if others were not. It was a time of closeness and giving and of cuddling close to stave off the cold. Warm fires, hot cocoa, soft clothing; winter was a time to be with loved ones. To see the beauty of the season and the beauty in one’s self.

And that was precisely what he was doing.

The dress fit him remarkably well at the top, his strong, dark chest filling the space and letting the fabric compliment the angles of his torso. His sides made the dress form a more streamline, boxy shape rather than the hourglass it was made to form, and even this seemed to compliment America, staying close against his skin, and making the swish of the skirt all the more noticeable. The fabric fell to just above the knee, and swirled with every turn of the hip, rose petals blooming to life and closing in the blink of an eye. The movement and volume of the fabric highlighted the streamline profile of his legs; dark blue stood out against the smooth bronze skin, throwing both shades into sharp relief. America owned a pair of heels that coordinated well with the dress, the same vibrant dark blue, with glittery silver straps, but today comfortable flats were on his feet, providing just a bit more protection from the winter air (along with the heater toiling away to keep the house sufficiently warm).

America regarded his reflection from all angles in front of the tall mirror standing in his bedroom. He turned, the skirt sweeping to life for a moment with the movement, and regarded the exposed swatch of skin the dress showed, starting at the shoulder blades and ending right at the hip. He felt powerful, majestic even. But was it realistic to wear something like this in this season?

America sighed, staring down at his legs, looking long and strong, one bent seductively though he himself felt doubtful now. A few creeks sounded- likely the house settling in the crazy temperatures- as America dove back into his closet. The flats rapped lightly against the floor when America stood back, holding up another dress, inspecting it with renewed excitement. America’s fingers fumbled with the clasps of his current dress as he tried to hastily step out of it, mindful yet impatient to try this new one. He cursed quietly, hair tousled from his fight out of the tight dress, which pooled into a blue heap on the floor and was replaced by something new.

The dress was elegant. Long. America felt seductive, rich with a kind of aplomb such as he had never felt before. Red satiny material swept in a single crisp line down from America’s neck to his ankle, the side opened in a slit that revealed flashes of muscled leg with even the slightest movement. The collar wrapped around his neck, the collar giving him a professional air, and his arms felt every movement of the tight fabric concealing them down to the rest. A grin stretched his lips before he tamed it into an indifferent, lazy smile, as if regarding something not worth his time.

America shifted his weight. The simple movement reminded him that he needed new shoes. He took a step, kicking one shoe off, and in that moment he saw, in the mirror-

“Russia!”

America wheeled round, eyes wide, not sure where to go, what to do. The room suddenly felt so open, leaving him feeling so exposed. His hands patted uselessly at his sides, as if trying to hide his figure but knowing it was in vain. The tense posture bent his leg at just the right ankle for the slit to expose right up to America’s thigh.

Sparkling blue eyes blinked, almost imploring Russia to just react already, but the larger man merely stood there, mouth open, looking utterly stunned.

“Um,” America began wisely, biting the inside of his cheek in regret.

Russia dropped his bag to the floor. A tongue darted out to moisten America’s suddenly dried lips. And still, Russia stood there with that dumbstruck look. It was something America had rarely seen cross Russia’s face, and certainly not to this extent, enough to leave him rooted to the spot, to leave him speechless, to-

Oh.

Molten excitement bubbled in America’s stomach as he recalled how powerful and commanding the dresses made him feel, pieced together with Russia’s awe- for that was what it was: utter, reverential, all-consuming awe.

In spite of his nervous energy, America mastered a cool smile. Russia’s eyes never left him, never wavered as America sauntered close, swaying his hips to accentuate the slash down the side and all it revealed.

Tension visibly washed over Russia, winding him tight until he seemed permanently immovable…except for the hand sluggishly raising from his side. America’s eyes flicked down to catch the hesitant movement, and another scorching smile was sent to Russia.

“You can touch.”

Russia paused, hand suspended in the endless space between them. His heart seemed to pound in his throat as, slowly, the words sunk in and, permission granted, Russia’s hand crossed the distance. His fingers grazed over the material, calloused skin rubbing slow appreciative paths against the satin. The thin layer between them left America able to feel every touch, every shift in pressure, the slightest tremor, the aching reverence with which he was dazedly touched.

“I’m not going to bite.” America clasped Russia’s wrist, trying to draw his palm flush against him. Russia’s gaze dropped to the fingers at his wrist, and he redirected his attention instead to the long arm clad in red. The pallid color of his skin stood out brilliantly against the deep red sleeves, up which his fingers slowly traveled. It was Russia’s turn to feel every slight tremor the teasing touches drew from America. Up, up, up his hand traveled, pads of his fingers pressing firmly into America’s arm, relishing the muscle beneath the luxurious fabric. Only after thoroughly drinking in the strong column of America’s arm was Russia able to tear his attention away, eyes alight with a kind of stunned hunger, wanting to take in everything at once.

While Russia drank in America’s mesmerizing form, America overcame his shock enough to properly inspect Russia. What he found brought a delighted grin to his face.

Russia liked to dress formally no matter the situation. It was common more often than not to see him donning at least a well-tailored jacket and dress pants even when not attending a meeting. That trend was somewhat altered after the revolution, when his civilian wardrobe took on a more modest appearance, but even then he was sure to dress up with as much as was available to him.

Then the advent of different fashions trickled into his periphery. Everything about his new mindset- everything his government had trained him to think- told him such clothing was unnecessary and counterproductive. As recently as the other day, trying on his new goods, he had frowned through the excitement he felt seeing them on him.

America, however, showed no such conflicting emotions, only a beaming smile and an excited thrum of energy charging through him. Russia had changed into a graphic T-shirt that read “I ♡ NY” with the New York skyline drawn across it. Looking lower, America was graced with the sight of Russia’s powerful legs wrapped in the faded blue denim of jeans, the fabric loose at the bottom, yet having a slightly tight fit at the top, perfectly accentuating his hips and thighs. Now it was America’s turn to feel his hand travel of its own accord across the space between them, mere inches yet feeling like the span of oceans. Sparks seemed to tingle in his fingertips where he felt Russia’s legs beneath the jeans.

As if a switch had been flipped, Russia closed the distance, hands fully exploring America’s figure in his long crimson dress.

“Red is a good color on you,” Russia noted with a satisfied smile. “Does this mean- ouch!”

America had ripped the false mustache off in one brutal swipe. Russia pried his hand off of America’s back to rub gingerly at his lip before returning to his exploration, as if drawn there by a magnet.

“And you look good in western clothing,” America shot back, hooking Russia by a belt loop and drawing him flush against him. “It’s something I could get used to seeing, you decked out in western fashion trends, draped in-”

Russia’s hand slipped beneath the back of his dress, pressed against his skin beneath where the fabric opened up. Maintaining a steady trail even as America squirmed in exhilarated discomfort, Russia’s hand found a home right at his rear. The grope that followed pushed a moan through America’s lips, the cold of Russia’s skin making him tingle, a sharp contrast to how warm everything suddenly felt.

In retaliation, America’s hand wandered to the back pocket of Russia’s jeans, sliding in and taking an appreciative feel of his own. Russia shifted against the persistent fingers, and America held fast, practically purring at how the firm mound felt in his hold, shuddering as Russia’s free hand found the opening at America’s leg. Long fingers wrapped possessively around his thigh, relishing the curves formed by his strong hold. Their eyes met. As one, Russia reached below America’s thigh just as America lifted his leg, together hiking the limb up to Russia’s hip. The closeness drew a rough sigh from Russia, a tremulous shudder from America.

The hand not feeling around in Russia’s jeans caressed his face, thumb swiping in slow, gentle movements below his eye, right at the cheekbone.

“Take those out,” America said, barely above a whisper. “I want to really see you.”

“Only if you leave the dress on. Unless the bear will get you.”

“I kind of want the bear to get m- did you just use slang?”

In lieu of answering, Russia turned to kiss the palm cupped to his face. Not breaking eye contact, Russia’s tongue darted out. Pressed, warm and wet, to America’s hand.

Something tight coiled in America’s stomach, breath coming in sharp intakes. “Hot,” he breathed. However, he would not relent. “But not as hot without seeing your actual eyes. Go on, big guy, go take the lenses out. I’ll still be here.” To emphasize his words, America broke away, giving a gentle push to Russia’s chest.

With no small degree of reluctance, Russia hurried to the bathroom, clumsily taking out the contact lenses and disposing of them (“And leave the shirt on!” America called from the other room). Rubbing gratefully at his eyes, Russia had just begun unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans when, returning to the bedroom, Russia saw America on the bed, one leg tucked under him, the other- the one on the side with the slit up the dress- was bent over the bed.

Heart fluttering, Russia knelt down by America at the edge of the bed. With deliberate movements, Russia eased the shoe from America’s foot, feeling the shudder pass through America when his cold fingers brushed his bare foot.

Gaze reverential, Russia bent over and kissed the top of America’s foot.

The ankle.

Up the shin, inch by inch, setting every bit of skin ablaze wherever his lips pressed.

The knee.

Up and across his thigh, pushing the fabric aside to better kiss wherever he could see America’s dark skin, painting the areas red to match the dress with slow, sensual kisses, all tongue and lips and finally the slightest pressure of teeth. Russia continued, America’s fingers combing through his hair, sliding down his face to his shoulders, slipping beneath the collar of the simple T-shirt to explore what muscled expanses he could. All the while, Russia took his time tenderly kissing America’s leg, now thoroughly heated and stained red.

A tug on his shirt drew Russia’s attention back to America’s face, sporting a blush of its own. “Come up here.”

Who was he to refuse such an appealing offer? Russia pried himself away from America’s leg, the better to draw them both further onto the mattress. The lay there on their sides, one hand caressing once more America’s heated, exposed thigh, the slit ending just shy of where desire was pooling molten and feverish within, while his other once more explored the opening in the back of the dress. America stared with feverish lust and longing and love at Russia garbed so thoroughly in icons of his own fashion trends, tousle-haired and flushed, feeling warm at last despite the winter chill both here and at home. Pushing himself up, America nudged Russia to lay on his back as America hovered over him. He pulled at the bottom hem of Russia’s shirt.

“I thought you wanted it to stay on.”

An explanation came in the form of America dipping down under the shirt, still concealing Russia’s torso and now himself, providing no warning for when America’s lips met the sensitive skin of his stomach. A slight twitch shot through Russia who felt America’s smile a few inches beside his navel. Russia moaned in time with each devilish trick America’s mouth played on his skin, lips kneading his torso, tongue lapping a scorching trail along scars, teeth nipping with cruel playfulness at his sides. Russia was wound taut when he pulled the collar up to peak below, eyes immediately meeting America’s predatory blue ones, lustful orchid crashing with longing azure. Russia watched America, confined between his own body and the shirt, hold his gaze as his kisses traveled up to his chest-

America was treated to a reverberating moan, feeling it from Ivan’s core through his lips and wicked tongue. The bedroom air felt cool against his exposed partially exposed back, but beneath Ivan’s shirt, close to his heated skin and their mutual want, Alfred felt almost overheated.

Fabric rustled. Ivan tugged his shirt back over and off Alfred, panting, not wasting a moment before pulling him into a kiss. Alfred returned the gesture, draping his body over Ivan with an elegance befitting the dress he wore. Russia hooked a leg behind America’s knee, the creases of his jeans felt through the satin. Every nerve felt especially sensitive, hyperaware of every tiny point of friction. Fingers combed through hair. Limbs tangled together. Pants were tugged awkwardly, impatiently off. Both kept on the tops they were wearing though, having fallen too in love with their beloved dressed so. Desire wrapped around them both, binding them together in a blur of movement, friction, caresses, whispers, tangled bedsheets and entwined bodies.

America’s breath came in rugged but joyful panting, his lips considerably redder, somewhat swollen from where Ivan’s teeth had tugged.

“I’m glad you made it,” America said earnestly. The distance between them was a hard trek to make, both geographically and on a level of its own, the distance forged by the difficulties imposed upon them by others. “I appreciate you coming all this way for me.”

Russia smiled. “Even just a New Year’s kiss would do.”

“First comes Christmas, comrade.”

“Not for me, at any point in the year.” Something had softened further still in Russia’s face, and America’s heart constricted.

“Sure, you do. January 7th, expect the Christmas cheer to come to your place in Moscow.”

“What does that mean?” Russia asked bemusedly.

America simply grinned cheekily, white teeth flashing. Objectively, he looked charming. Subjectively, Russia knew to expect the unexpected when that smile appeared.

For the moment, however, surprises were welcome, as each moment together was a holiday gift themselves, and the shocking turns in life were things they could work through and piece together fueled by the competitive and daring spirit of themselves and each other. Russia stayed as long as he dared- though near the end any trips outside were spent with some of his disguise on- and met the New Year with a kiss on the lips and the sun in his arms.

When he did return, the festivities, traveling, and eight-hour time difference left him spent. He had entered his modest bedroom long enough to collapse into bed, only to barely wake up in time to rush to work the next morning. It was a rude introduction back to the monotony of everyday life, but, he remembered sagely as he endured hour after hour, that monotony made the holidays all the more special.

Except that advice did not help when his boss had strolled into his office to speak with him and paused, looking confused as he stared at Ivan, and Ivan realized too late he had not removed his colored contact lenses or the fake facial hair since he left America.

Making something up was easy but felt like a private humiliation. Russia had not, however, felt concerned about it until, at the end, his boss had muttered a simple, “ _Yasno_.”

Russia had left the Kremlin unsure of what to make of that, and his stomach had churned uncomfortably on and off for days after. No longer was he drowsy through work; rather, he stayed aware of all the goings on, who entered and who left, who was there every day and who only appeared on occasion. That in itself was tiring, but Russia felt too tense to be tired.

By the time what had been his revered Orthodox Christmas came around, Russia was at last feeling the ramifications of his unease. He dragged himself home feeling drowsy and relieved to be done for the week-

His first warning should have been the extra pair of shoes just outside the door to his apartment. Looking back, Russia was sure he had actually taken note of them, but his mind had been too fatigued to register what that pair of boots in the hall meant.

The next warning that he _did_ puzzle over right away was the missing pair of slippers gone from just inside the door. He grimaced, wondering if he was being subject to some strangely polite robber. But…odd. The lock had still been secured.

Proceeding with caution, Russia entered further into his small domain, tense, ready to strike.

And there he was, sitting gracefully in a chair by the window, profile darkened against the fading light outside. A broad, fluffy hat sat perched on his head. His shoulders were slanted coyly under a thick, knitted dress that hugged his body down to his knees, under which his legs were kept warm in woolen stockings. America’s entire posture radiated confidence, laced with the same surety of his power and strength he had borne last time he was clad in a dress. It was just as breathtaking a look for him now as it was then, just as heartbreaking in its perfection.

The two countries stared at one another, America maintaining a calm, polite interest as he watched Russia open and close his mouth. Distantly, Russia was able to realize America had been trying on those clothes to sneak over in his own disguise. They had had the same idea…

As if drawing himself from the invasive grip of a thick fog, Russia managed to move his body. In three long strides he had crossed the distance to where Russia sat and, just as he had days ago, knelt down and clasped a leg, reveling in the feel of America beneath the stockings, the perfect way the wintery dress clung to him, showing the kind of delicate mite Russia knew but so many were blind to when gazing upon America. Once more, he pressed a tender kiss to him.

Even the monotony of life could be broken with just the right force, and love was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> A very happy holiday season to you, Emerald! Sorry this is a bit late; something came up with your original Santa, so Derevosky and I filled your request. Dere put together the title and a thorough outline of the events that would unfold in this fic, along with setting, relationship status, finer details, and more, and she also wrote the beginning of the fic. Your fills were all great and this was fun for us to write!!!
> 
> Not too much for notes here except Dere outlined Russia using American slang. Included in this fic is “flub the dub,” which apparently means “to avoid one’s duty,” “a pine overcoat,” which is a coffin, and “the bear got him,” where the bear in the phrase means heatstroke, but it’s especially fitting here because the national animal of Russia is the bear.
> 
> Additionally, though they weren’t necessarily “banned” all the time, jeans, graphic T-shirts, and sneakers (for non-athletes) weren’t produced or encouraged among the masses of the USSR; this didn’t stop people from getting ahold of them, though. The state deemed them unnecessary; what good did they do? What purpose did they serve? But the best way to promote something is to discourage it, sometimes.
> 
> The title is, as mentioned, the time difference between Washington DC and Moscow, America and Russia’s capitols.
> 
> Sometimes because traffic in Moscow can be so (famously) congested, bikes are a popular travel alternative, hence why Ivan has used one in the past.
> 
> "Yasno" is a way of saying "understood," "all clear," "I get what you're saying." But, through history Russians are said to be able to say things and let their eyes say the rest, and when combining this with the meanings of "yasno," it can mean "I TRULY understand what you're saying" / "I understand the actual meaning to what you're saying." So Ivan is worried when his boss says "yasno" because, with the look he's giving him after Ivan makes an excuse, Ivan sees it has his boss saying "I see what's really going on here."


End file.
